Friday, 28 August 2009

Eating mints

Wasn't what I had in mind, eating mints in a crowded beach shelter while the hail storm raged. I was cornered next to a man shouting into his mobile about this weekend's footie fixtures and a street sweeper intent on keeping his cart dry even though there was no room for it. A tall guy with a huge over-loaded rucksack kept leaning on me.

A Helen Mirren look-alike was gazing out at the white of breakers, chewing her nails. Grounded waves ran along the promenade, puddles on the move, turning into and out of glassy blue as the floored sky raced past. A shallow sea, travelling. I looked down at my feet. I had my old leaky shoes on.

Bikes blurred by like cartoon speed lines. Only going from West to East. Being blown home. Trousers were stuck to their legs like plastic bags with all the seams in the wrong place. A woman strode out against the wind. She held her hands over her ears, had a huge red bag tucked under her elbow, like a danger flag.